Get your fake smile ready

I have once again run up against the old brick wall of words, and can't seem to wrap up any of the topics  I've been working on.  I have a long list of drafts, but they can't seem to get out of the gate.  Politically correct speech?  A minefield of potentially offensive observations.  Marriage advice?  I've fallen asleep in my chair 3 nights this week.  The Republican primaries?  What's the rush?...these guys will be blathering in our faces for 9 more months. New banking/mortgage/consumer protection programs?  A rant against asinine new government regulations when I haven't finished ranting about the deranged old government regulations I don't like seems premature.

No, I don't have my head on straight for any heavy topics these days.  Generally speaking, I'm worthless in February anyway.  Even with our unseasonably mild winter weather here in northern Indiana, the doldrums have set in and I'm sort of stuck in a state of yucky blahness.  I need a figurative feather to tickle my creative fancy.  Absent that, I'm prone to babble with no discernible purpose.

So that only leaves me one option:  post pictures of stuff.  And I just so happen to have been doing some sewing over the last few months - mostly tacky Christmas presents. So here I go, parading my charming homemade wares; you just plaster on that fake smile, nod at regular intervals, and let your mind wander to more fascinating matters - like the grooming habits of chipmunks, for example.



I love to cross-stitch, especially little novelties like this.  Here is a little plant stake I did for a friend who grows basil and is kind enough to share her bounty with neighbors like me.  (I'm currently working on the "parsley" stake; any takers?)

I've always wanted to make pajamas for Eric.  This year I got up the nerve.  Found a how-to online and bought some Colts fleece and voila`!  Pajama bottoms that fit like the baggy sweatpants I used for my template!  He likes them pretty well, although this year was not a good year to be a Colts fan.  Maybe next year I'll look for a happier print, like skull and crossbones.

 Here is Camille modelling her "letter sweater."  It was an ill-conceived notion, based on the idea that I was tired of keeping track of all the patches she's earned in middle school.  She didn't want a school jacket, so I found this gold sweater and thought I'd make a keepsake for her.  Like most keepsakes, this will end up in a box, but that's what I get for buying a sweater two sizes too big. (I personally think it looks cute, but I have no fashion clout in this house.)

Next up is one of those polar fleece clip-and-tie blankets that almost every Girl Scout has made.  These are quick and fun and Mary says she's much warmer under this than she was under her lightweight quilt.  I also made one for Camille, but (hold your applause) I forgot to take a picture of it.

The girls have been using their child-sized homemade hooded bath towels for way too long, so this year I bought some plush bath sheets and made big-girl sized towels to their color specifications.  In case you didn't know, teenage girls like black, white and gray, and they refer to these as "colors."  Whatever.












Here's a cross-stitch project I started more years ago than I care to admit, and finished in time to give it to Eric for Christmas.  This about sums up his philosophy on life.

 If this loveseat looks familiar, that's because it was featured in a recent blog relating to how to get new furniture and blame it on your dogs (click here if you need a refresher course).

It came with two very large pillows (in a print of ugly green circles that looked like Spanish olives without the pimento) that crowded the loveseat and left very little sitting room.  I bought some small pillow forms made these pillow covers and the table runner there so that all three dogs can fit on the loveseat without a helpful human removing pillows for them.

Now I'll share my secret to making friends:  tacky craft bribery.  Only the cruelest person who doesn't need friends will turn down the offer of a tacky homemade item as a friendship come-on.  One of my dear friends is a voracious reader.  I stitched this easy bookmark for her birthday last month - it says "You Can't Have Too Many Books."  I should design another one that says "You Can't Have Too Many Friends."

This trunk was a garage sale find several years ago.  It's been at the foot of one or more beds in this house, but tended to get covered up with junk.  I cut up a tablecloth and stapled part of it to the top, then used the bound trim to wrap the base where some of the rattan was coming loose, and to make a loop for lifting the lid.  It now sits in my entryway below some coat hooks and our hats, gloves and scarves are stored inside.  It's functional, so it doesn't have to be beautiful.

This is the quilt I made so I could tell myself I could make a quilt.  When all was said and done, I decided to hand-knot it rather than quilt it properly, but I still love how it turned out.  The green back and sashing fabric were left over from the chair skirts I made for the dining room.  The gold print started out as a tablecloth I liked.  It was the wrong size for my dining room table, but I was so taken with it (and it was on clearance) that I bought it to save for some future use.  You saw the matching pillows and table runner a few pictures up the page.  Look below and you'll see its true purpose:

 It was made expressly to protect the back of the new loveseat, which is the doggie lookout perch!

Well, then - okay.  I think I've quenched my desire to undertake any more large projects for awhile.  I've still got several cross-stitch projects going - including a pre-quilted baby blanket for my new great-nephew - but I'm going to try to write a bit more, and sew a bit less, in the upcoming months.  Sticky topics await my next rant.

An Unexpected Shopping Spree

I am a dog lover.  Actually, I am a worse than that, because my dogs run my life the way some people's spoiled toddlers run theirs.  My children were subjected to strict, consistent upbringing with rare rewards (at least they rarely got what they wanted for rewards).  As a result, I have two lovely, well-behaved daughters who wouldn't dream of acting unpleasantly in front of visitors or deliberately making extra work for me.

The same cannot be said of my dogs.  They have too much freedom and make too many demands.  I didn't employ the same skills and expectations to rearing them as I did to my children, and my laziness shows in their behavior and unpredictability.

Grant

I could say much more on the subject, and probably will in another entry.  But right now I can see you furrowing your brow and scratching your head and asking, "What does this have to do with shopping?  Get to the good part, already!"

Gus

Well, dogs like mine, with bad manners, have been known to act like animals on occasion.  The most recent example of this tendency was demonstrated by Grant, the 3 year-old puppy.  Actually, we call all of the dogs "puppies," because it gives the hopeful (but false) impression that they may grow out of their annoying habits.  Grant, the bird dog, is 3; Gus, my mother's sweet Maltese, is 4-ish; Joey is a 6 year-old Shih-tzu who makes you want to pronounce his breed with an emphasis on the "t."

Joey

Grant had the good fortune to catch a rabbit inside our fenced yard one day recently.  I didn't see him do it.  I don't know exactly how he accomplished the feat.  All I know is that the other two dogs were barking their brains out for no apparent reason, while Grant sat on the sofa, licking his stuffed animal.  Since I'd just cleaned house and put away their toys, I reached to take the toy when I realized it wasn't a toy.  It had been treated like a toy for the last little while, but now Grant was letting it rest.  On the couch.

Now this couch isn't just any couch.  It was part of a hand-me-down set from a neighbor.  Good pieces, well worn but still sturdy.  Unfortunately, since my living room/family room area has few long walls, we've never been able to fit both matching pieces in one room, so the couch went in the living room and the dogs took it over as one of their many napping areas.  We eventually took to referring to it as the "dog couch," because if anyone tried to sit on it, there would instantly be 3 dogs up there with you, jockeying for your lap, your scratching hand, your snack or the warm air blowing out of the back of the laptop.  Consequently, Eric and the girls only ever sat in chairs.

I liked the loveseat, in the other room, because it had room for one person and 2 dogs or 2 people, and it was in front of the tv.  If I'm going to bother to stop and watch tv, I need at least one dog to warm my feet.  But I digress.

Grant had the dead rabbit on the dog couch.  As unconcerned as I generally am about cleanliness, tidiness and overall upkeep, this was even beyond my ability to tolerate.  I could get the rabbit off the couch.  I could wash the covers, steam-clean the cushions and shampoo the carpets.  I could Febreze everything in the room.  But I'd always know there was a dead rabbit on the couch, once.  Since I never saw Grant bring his prize in the open back door, I had no idea how long it spent on the couch - only seconds or minutes, because I'd just gotten home.  But it didn't matter.  I knew in that instant I was getting new furniture.

Like so many other gross, disgusting household emergencies, Eric was out of town for this one.  The upside was that I could describe it any way I wanted or needed to, in order to make him understand that this furniture had to vacate the house post haste. (I don't want to advocate lying, but necessity is the mother of exaggeration...)  The downside was that I had to dispose of the mangled creature...alone.

Since there was no way I was touching it - I'd almost touched it when I thought it was a toy, and I was still having flashbacks and jerky hand spasms about that close call - I called a neighbor.  Not just any neighbor, but my neighbor with the husband who unclogged the 8 quarts of pasta primavera from the garbage disposal not so long ago.  I figured if he could deal with that mess, he'd could manage the poor wittle bunny.  Plus, these neighbors have a dog who has his own comedy/drama shtick, so I figured they wouldn't judge poor Grant too harshly.

The rabbit was removed from the premises, so there was just the small matter of the sofa.  It couldn't just sit in my house.  I called Eric, but he just had lots of useful advice about washing and sterilizing the cushions.  (That's what necessitated the exaggeration - there was very little blood on the couch, but that wasn't really the point, was it?)

Fortunately, I got my way and the sofa is history.  But even after I rearranged, repositioned and redistributed the excess furniture from all over the house, the sad fact couldn't be ignored.  I had to buy a new couch.

The space created by all this shifting around is actually not so big, so I was shopping for a small  loveseat.  I found something that fit the space and the budget, and is impervious to dog slobber.



As the saying goes, "When life hands you lemons, send them back and ask for a pitcher of margaritas."

And the rearranging project led to some nice developments elsewhere in the house.  When the spirit moves me, I'll have to post some pictures of the Cluttered Unmatched Florals Room, the Desk Underneath the Recliner arrangement, and (cue the choir of angels) the Cozy Keurig Reading Nook in the master bedroom.  But those will have to wait for another burst of blogging fever.

And I'm happy to report that all the dogs, even my step-dog McDuff, like the new furniture.  Occasionally they even let us humans sit a spell.

Ten Commandments of a Failed Domestic Diva

Looking around at my house on this peaceful Sunday morning, I'm stunned that I would ever refer to myself as a Domestic Diva, even in jest. From the mushy comforts of my favorite chair, seated twenty feet from my kitchen, I can see piles of some sort of debris on the counter that may actually be bacterial colonies at this point.  My October calendar workpile is leaning precipitously toward sliding off the breakfast table and onto a sticky floor that is insulated with a heavy layer of dog fur. Since I can't work up the moral or hygenic indignation to do anything about this state of affairs, I feel the need to convert my laziness into a haphazard philosophy that can benefit others.  Draw near, Gentle Reader, and learn from my practical strategies and attitude of contentedness:

1.  When there are several unfinished projects taking up needed space around the house, go see a good movie.  (I saw "The Debt" yesterday, leaving behind a house full of cluttered horizontal surfaces.)  A quick procrastinatory dose of escapism makes the mundane seem more manageable.

2.  Never ask your spouse if they need help doing a job you desperately don't want to do.  Examples of this mistake generally involve the yard, basement and/or the garage.  If they ask you, plead "Weaker Sex" status or lack of certified training.  If all else fails, make a vague reference to your "cycle."  That should send them running to a male neighbor for help,

3. When carpet stains reappear, or you notice that a room needs touch-up painting, or your windows are too dirty to see out of, rearrange your furniture.  It takes several days for the novelty to wear off and for you to remember what you were trying to hide.  And once it's hidden, it may as well have disappeared.

4.  Do not waste time or energy trying to train dogs to stay off furniture, or stop barking at other dogs or jumping on people they like.  Find a professional and get a quote for the service.  Then laugh hysterically as you watch your spouse turn blue at the cost of the estimate.  If years of effort have failed, accept that both you and your dogs are stupid and/or lazy, and just give up.

5.  Feel free to leave things out on counters and tables to provide reminders (wink) or "visual cues" (wink wink), but don't pretend those cues hasten the speed those items get attended to and put away.

6.  Cook what you like to eat, and don't spend time trying to get people to eat healthy stuff they hate.  Like you, they'll just sneak the bad stuff the first chance they get.

7.  Corollary to #6:  Cleaning the kitchen after a meal no one liked is 10 times more unpleasant than cleaning a kitchen full of clean plates and empty pots and pans, and much more likely to involve profanity.

8.  Calling friends to talk about how much you dread all the jobs on your to-do list only magnifies the unpleasantness and delays the inevitable.  Try calling a friend to celebrate a completed task.  They'll resent you for it, but it makes more sense.  And write the annoying call on your to-do list so you can check it off too - a win/win!

9.  Basements, upstairs bedrooms and attics are out of sight of visitors for a reason.  Don't ruin it for the rest of us by keeping them clean for anyone but the most important, discerning guests, like your mother-in-law.

10.  If you want to decorate like Martha Stewart, cook like Rachel Ray or exercise like Jillan (what's her last name?), be my guest.  I admire your dedication to excellence.  At one time, I felt that way too, but visible evidence proves it was a fleeting aspiration.  I can finally admit that I like my hodge-podge furniture, slap-dash meals and leisurely strolls on my treadmill.

If you closely follow these Ten Commandments, as I have, you are clearly headed for Housework Hell, or some variation thereof.  However, you are welcome to help me think of a new, more suitable nickname for myself, since "Domestic Diva" has outlived its ironic usefulness.  Right now, I'm leaning toward "Malingering Matron" or "Contented Cow."

Pointless Dogs Raves and my First Contest!

It's a mess in here.  It reminds me of the days of raising small children.  Specifically, it reminds me of cleaning up after large groups of small children.  I thought I was done with post-playgroup horror.  You know that feeling  you get when you hosted playgroup, and everyone just left, and it's time to clean the room in which the little darlings were contained for two hours of play, snacks and socialization?

Well, today my downstairs looks as if a small army of 3 year-olds have been quartered here for a few hours.  Empty food bowls have been rolled from room to room.  There are pillows on the floor, surrounded by stuffed animals, rubber noisemakers and amorphous items that defy description.  Blankets have been unfolded and reshaped for better napping.  Magazine piles have been shifted from end tables to the floor, to facilitate perching at the window for stranger patrol.  What few attractive or valuable items we own are placed high in a bookshelf, to avoid breakage or chewing. 

But no toddlers live here.  Remind me again why I have dogs?

They staged a dog version of extreme wrestling this morning, and needed the contents of my mending pile to demonstrate their manliness, I guess.  I kept hoping one of them would take a knitting needle to the haunch and decide to go lick themselves for a while.  Alas, no puncture wounds.  Just an upended basket of mending strewn through three rooms.

I won't share pictures of the mess, although I'm sure you are wishing I would.  I'll just show you the vicious, blood-thirsty beasts, as evidenced by these post-fight photos I snapped:

It wouldn't be so bad if either of these mutts were the least bit useful.  Joey, the shih-tzu, does a decent imitation of a foot warmer, but he doesn't work on demand, just when the mood strikes him.  Grant, the spaniel mix, would really rather be a carnival hawker or some such.  He wants to make first contact with anyone who visits, and barks to passersby, human and dog alike, even if they are quite distant, trying to entice them to come sniff, wrestle and play chase with him.

Like our last 4 dogs, these two were rescue dogs, pedigree guessed at, taken as-is, no returns, no exchanges.  We could only guess at their skill-set, or lack thereof, and hope they'd be healthy and easy-going.   Well, if by easy-going, I meant they accepted my furniture as good enough for them, I suppose they met that minimum benchmark.  Healthy - yes, thank God, they've both been very healthy.

But some days I just wish they could do something practical.  My spray bottle of vinegar and Indiana Jones bullwhip are useless when trying to teach them how to put away their toys.  Or if they would dig where I need to plant bulbs, that would turn an unpleasant habit into a helpful one.  And since they are willing to eat almost anything, why can't I get them to lick up that little pile of debris that is left when I try to sweep the last bit of rubbish into the dustpan?  How hard would that be?

But I generally earn a blank stare when I try to communicate anything beyond "treat" or "squirrel!"  They usually rest or sleep through my workday, oblivious to all the labor-saving jobs they could be doing, if only they wanted to learn.  Like most dogs, a sure-fire way to get their attention is food preparation.  When I'm stirring a pot on the stovetop, or chopping at the cutting board, their expressions convey the most sincere desire to be of service, should anything fall and roll out of my reach (like a meatball).  But they show no desire to retrieve the out-of-reach wet socks that always seem to dot the floor when I'm transferring laundry.  Really, dogs, what's the difference?


No, these dogs don't help much with the chore list.  Although they do require their very own page in the to-do list:  feed, freshen water, walk, furnish toys, chews, dental treats, vitamins, heartworm and flea preventative, brush, clean up messes...I'm getting bored just typing this.  I gave up offering their, um, shall we say, leavings, to composting environmentalists, who would only need to come and collect it from my yard.  I'd even furnish the pooper-scooper, bucket and a beer to sweeten the deal.  Strangely, no takers.  But it's an open-ended offer, folks.


Since I cannot convert their waste to a cash crop, my next idea was their fur.  These two dogs shed an impossible amount of fur.  I sometimes wonder if they are running a doggie equivalent of an underground railroad in my house.  There must be other dogs hiding here, contributing to the fluff piles that blow from room to room.  I fancy that Joey, who seems like a heartless, territorial furball, is actually the leader of an altruistic pipeline operation that helps abused dogs reach some better destination.  Perhaps when Grant is at the front window, distracting me by barking at the sound of air molecules bumping into each other, Joey is escorting some poor, ungroomed yorkie-poo from a basement hideaway, out the back gate and into the care of the next escort dog.  Is that so far-fetched?

Because the quantity of hair that shows up in my dyson canister, almost daily, seems pretty far-fetched too.  A ten pound dog shouldn't be shedding 5 pounds of fur a week, right?  They'd eventually look like a naked mole rat, at that rate.  But that's exactly what I'm dealing with here.  And being a waste-not, want-not kind of girl, I would like to get some use out of this bumper crop of fur.  Surely, there must be an enterprising weaver, knitter or furrier who needs my extra supply.  There are doubtless needy children living on a tundra somewhere who'd be happy to own a parka filled (with love) by dog fur. Every time I throw away a bale of fur, I feel like such a wasteful non-recycler.


But repeated google searches turned up no one who wanted to buy my collection.  I was discussing this situation with my friend, who I will only refer to here as Merin Urphy, and she was in agreement that we pet owners should not have to work so hard to clean up after these animals, without some reward for the products yielded.  I assured her that, although she has also two dogs, and may be able to understand my predicament, I probably have much more fur to deal with than she does.  She contradicted me, which isn't very nice, so I politely suggested we compare our disgusting dustpans one day.  This unpleasant idea drove us to drink, and the challenge was temporarily forgotten.


But since I couldn't think of anything else to write about today, I'm going to take that challenge and turn it on it's ear.


(cue Frankie Avalon):  Hey, kids, let's have a dog fur contest!


Dog fur rolls around my house like tumbleweeds in Dodge City, so we're calling this the Dog Fur Tumbleweed Contest (Thanks to Merin for the inspirational title).  Since I've never held a contest before, and don't know how it's done, there are no rules beyond a request that you play fair.  Your dogs, their fur, your house, and no fair making the kids do all the work.


Take a picture of the largest furball you can assemble that will hold it's shape without excessive manipulation or the addition of super-glue, dryer lint, etc.  Here is a small sample from one corner in my house, just to give you something to aim for:

I know it's a pretty pitiful effort, but there could only be two reasons why my offering is so small: one, my house is spotless, or two, since it's my contest, I'm ineligible to enter, so I'm not willing to work that hard.  I'll leave you in suspense about which reason it is.  (And yes, that's my kitchen counter.  Don't judge me unless you never changed a diaper on yours...)

Finally, this bark-out is for all the Mollys and Baileys, plus Max, McDuff, Sawyer, Maggie, Ruby, Homer, Gus, Buddy, Peaches, Hank, Casey, Lizzy, and all the other dogs we know and love: Tell your owners to get busy and enter this contest!  I'm trying to go viral here!

Email your pictures to :  mma.friendfam@sbcglobal.net 

The winner will receive a genuine plastic case for displaying their treasure, a Certificate for Prodigious Time Wasted, and a big lick from Grant.